moment made his escape, proceeded leisurely to the little Town Park lying between the river and Watterson's Creek. There he devoured all of the municipal flower-bed and then most of the park shrubs, and was enjoying the bark from a few of the younger shade-trees when discovered by old Jenkins, the gardener, who drove him ignominiously forth with a spade and much bad language.
Wandering fretfully homeward, Gilead lingered a moment or two in the Sampsons' side yard, over a tempting row of geraniums, set out but a week before by the Preacher's wife. This repast eventually led him to the door of the summer kitchen, where sat Mrs. Sampson herself and a Swedish servant-girl, patiently and contentedly stoning a huge crock of raisins, for her next Christmas pudding, that excellent housekeeper always priding herself on the fact that her puddings of this nature should stand and ripen for at least six months.
Gilead, with a light and confident bound, leaped inside the summer kitchen. At this unlooked-for apparition the Swedish girl fled, screaming lustily. A moment later, she was
